The Gift of Woe

It was a good sized chunk of money, there was no denying that. Not exactly massive inheritance sort of money, but certainly pay-off-my-student-loans money, extravagant European vacation money, perhaps even homeowner money, but buying a home seemed so far-off and boring when she hadn’t yet finished college or had an extravagant European vacation. The most exciting thing about the money was the name Mira Cardwell printed neatly in small, professional letters just after “Pay to the order of”. She handled the check carefully as if it might turn to sand with a single breath, allowing herself at last a small, tentative smile once it became clear that this was unlikely to happen. Seeing one’s own name written down by foreign hands on such a life-changing little piece of paper had an odd turn to it; a funny little twist in the stomach that tightened the heart and its moorings and drew everything together in a little ball of pleasant anxiety.

“I’d like to make a deposit.”

The bank teller gave a plastic smile and slipped the check out from the little metal dip in the partition between what was behind the glass and the real world, the one without mountains of cash stacked neatly within arms reach. Her eyes widened when she saw the amount, and Mira suddenly felt she knew the parental pride of sharing a piece of something precious to those who had no claim to it.

“It’s going to uh, it’ll take - excuse me,” The bank teller faltered, seemingly forgetting how to clasp together the ends of the plastic smile. “It should show up in your account within two business days. Have a nice day, Ms. Cardwell.”

And she did have a nice day, with no direct relation to the piece of paper with the large number printed on it, but with the ease of someone with no particular troubles for the time being. Well, nothing pressing really. There was the issue with the little black book; the double feature to the massive chunk of change. The two had arrived as lovers, sharing a bed together in that puffy tan sleeve that came in the mail. That was another thing; who sends such a sensitive document through regular ground mail in nothing but bubble wrap?

“Probably just some big-wig from your uncle’s old job,” Her mother had explained. “Real estate.” She chewed the side of her lip, sifting through the rest of the mail. “Insurance. I don’t know, he was your dad’s brother. It’s probably just a client list. Corporate sentimentality.”

Mira was only a freshman and not quite on her way to working in either insurance or real estate, but she was still pretty sure that most corporations didn’t send their dead employees’ relatives little black books and baby fortunes. She cast aside the who and the why for a moment and redirected her attention to the what. It was easy to get lost in the implications of all that money; all the things it could do, the people it could influence. Whenever she had received birthday cards from grandparents as a child she was always instructed to at least pretend to care about the card before tossing it aside to see how many bills they’d crammed in there. But this time it wasn’t out of a respect for the gift that she turned the packaging over and over in her hands, examining its folds and pondering its murky origins.

“What does it say? In the book?”

“Dunno. Can’t get it open.”

The book was sealed tight, a small gold clasp the only ornament across its dark leathery surface. Even the pages, from what could be seen of them, appeared to be dyed a deep, inky black. Useless. She stuck her hand inside the envelope and finally uncovered another little piece of the puzzle. It was a yellow sticky-note, the stick nearly gone but not without a fight. She peeled it off the wall of the envelope and examined it.

Her mother glanced up from the mail long enough to notice. “What does it say?”

Mira squinted at the neat little scrawl pouring antlike down the face of the note.

“‘To whom it may concern,’” She read, and felt an odd shiver at the words. She skimmed the rest, her lips fluttering absently.

“Well?”

She finished, then read it again, focusing on the words she missed the first time in case they fit together differently that way. It seemed pretty cut and dry.

“There’s supposed to be a key - “ She felt around on the ground frantically, and came away with a little square of plastic, an ornate, gold key sitting neatly within its folds. The design of the key matched the style of the clasp on the notebook. She squinted again at the note, as if consulting the packaging on a TV dinner.

“It says not to open it,” She said, flipping the paper over for further instructions. Nothing, except the grime saturated strip of dead stick. “If I open it, I forfeit the money.”

Her mother gave a smug scoff from the kitchen table. “Nonsense. How could they know?”

Mira wasn’t sure, but something in the note’s tone combined with the unexpected mystery of the whole thing gave the terms of the deal a strange legitimacy. She tucked the book back into its paper womb and stuck the note on top, placing the arrangement in an old shoebox where she kept all those things she didn’t feel like seeing all the time. It lived beneath her bed, and visited her in dreams when it seemed like they’d grown distant, always accompanied by threatening men in dark suits, which all seemed rather silly in the morning but always gave her a cold sweat at first fevered awakening.

In the daytime, she took to wearing the key around her neck as a memento. She felt important in the secret way of spies and the shadowy people behind the things that happened in the world. Maybe she was important; why else would she be in the possession of the key, the book, and the large chunk of change?

“Ah dude, doesn’t it just kill you though? I mean, isn’t it just decimating?”

They were having lunch, her and the only girl in class Mira felt she could really trust. She had worn the key for the first time that day and, feeling the eyes of the classroom upon her, made a concentrated effort to sheath the information surrounding its inception even in her own mind. It really made a very nice necklace, the key itself was probably worth something. Real gold, her mother had once said, was like the sun - beautiful and bright, the center of attention. You weren’t supposed to stare at either, but a lot of people couldn’t help it. She kept her gaze low, waving away comments with off-white lies about family heirlooms and dead relatives. The trouble came with Becca, when Mira reached her usual spot and could no longer keep the sparkle from her eyes. She always got to her desk about fifteen minutes later than her friend, and when she did she always came bearing treasures. Her uncharacteristic silence raised a flag, and Becca cocked her head, sensing a juicier morsel than usual.

Mira chewed a carrot stick thoughtfully. “A little.” She admitted. “It is quite tantalizing, this little mystery of mine.”

Becca stared wistfully at some indeterminate point past Mira’s right shoulder. “Lucky sonuva.”

“You want money? I’ve got money. I still owe you for lunch - and for saving my ass in study group.”

Becca snapped out of it. “No - I mean yes, please.” She shook her head wildly. “But that’s not the point.”

Mira traced the pattern of stone on the wall she sat perched on. “Isn’t it?” She gave a little smirk.

“Nobody really cares about money.” Becca thought her statement over. “I mean sure, you need the stuff. But now that you’ve got it, what are you left with? It’s cruel, actually. They couldn’t just solve all your problems and leave it at that. They had to make a game of it.”

“Well its either the money or this stupid little book.” Mira paused. “You don’t think they could really know if I take a peek?”

“I dunno dude, but I’m not vouching for you when the feds or the illuminati or whatever bust down your door.”

Neither outcome seemed likely. But then again, neither did the money. Such good fortune was difficult to comprehend. She still found herself cringing at the prices of textbooks revealed over the week by smarmy professors who had helped write them. Pocket change. She could buy everyone’s textbooks. She could buy the publisher. All that aside, a single, doubting thought was coming into painful focus: If the contents of the book were so important that to know them was to forfeit a bounty of such magnitude, what sort of value might they entail?

Her boyfriend was no help in quelling such thoughts.

“I say, go for it.”

“Come on,”

“I’m serious. What do you have to lose?”

Mira gave him a look. “You know, nothing much, just more money than I’ve ever conceived of in my life.”

“Look - you didn’t sign anything, right? And the check was written out to you. I think the courts would rule in your favor.”

Mira sighed. “And what about mystery men with piles of money? You think they’d rule in my favor?”

He shrugged. “Could be a woman.”

Mira cackled. “No, this dumb shit is definitley the work of your kind. Manipulative ass men with their little black books and secret deals that nobody asked for.”

She had it with her now. They were at the beach. It was sitting at the edge of the blanket, eyeing her coldly. She had brought it with the vague intention of casting it among the waves. She would watch until it was nothing but a small, black point in the roiling wake of the tide, a secret among secrets, anonymous in the crashing void. She could not quite live up to the poetry of the intended action, sitting here now, avoiding its gaze.

What did it matter, really?

“I might as well open it,” She said dryly. “Maybe there’s another check inside. What a ruse that would be.”

No, better to be done with the thing, to never know and to be content with the ignorance. Money was just a number, she could save it and spend it and speak no more of its origins. No telling what horrors lay hidden between the pages of this small tormentor. She would throw it as far as she could and let fate do the rest. She smiled, and felt suddenly very warm, almost giddy. It was the only thing to do. She reached out a hand and patted the empty blanket. Frowning, she stretched her fingers an inch or so this way and that way, grasping nothing. She turned, and her breath caught sharply in her throat at what she saw.

The book lay now in the middle of the blanked, sliced open, her boyfriend’s pocket knife beside it, a rapist. He stared now at nothing, or perhaps the golden sky echoed against the waves, something beautiful to wipe the jagged awfulness from his mind. The words, once native to those awful black pages, now clawed the guilt-ridden edges of his consciousness, incarcerated there. He looked at her, and for the rest of her life she would wish to scrub that look from her memory. It was a look of pale hopelessness, the awful calm at the eye of a hurricane.